The Hairpin and the Haunting

The antique market smelled like roasted chestnuts, incense, and possibly regret. Lin Yanyu squinted through the haze of red lanterns swaying overhead as she navigated the crowded alley. The ground was uneven, the signs were mostly handwritten (and misspelled), and every other stall claimed to sell “100% Real Ancient Artifacts!!!” with an offensively modern price tag.

She didn’t come here for history. She came for haunted junk.

“Come, come! Lucky girl, you look like someone with spiritual affinity!” shouted a man from behind a cluttered table full of trinkets. His eyes were squinty and suspiciously sparkly.

Yanyu paused. Her ghost-sensing instincts—which she usually ignored in favor of denial—began to buzz. Something on the table glowed faintly. Not in a pretty, LED way. More like a this-might-curse-your-descendants sort of glow.

Nestled among the cracked porcelain and old coins was a jade hairpin. Smooth, pale green, and carved with the delicate shape of a lotus flower, it looked way too elegant to be rotting in a discount bin.

“How much for the hairpin?” she asked, pointing at it with one hesitant finger.

The vendor grinned. “For you, student discount! Only 30 yuan! And maybe a drop of blood, depending on the hour—kidding!”

She stared at him.

He stared back.

“I’ll take it,” she said.

---

Back in her dorm room, the atmosphere was less mysterious and more tragic. Crumpled laundry threatened to evolve into a second roommate, and a row of failed midterm results mocked her from the bulletin board.

“Welcome home,” she muttered to the hairpin, setting it reverently on her cluttered desk between a half-used ghost-repelling incense stick and a Hello Kitty lighter.

Her cat, Chairman Meow, blinked from the windowsill with the eternal disapproval only cats and disapproving ancestors could muster.

“Don’t give me that look. You know I collect haunted crap. It’s a hobby. Like knitting. But with more risk of demonic possession.”

Chairman Meow sneezed pointedly and curled back into his loaf form.

Yanyu went about her nightly routine: shower, cursed scroll recitation, light sobbing about her GPA. She brushed her hair absently, humming off-key to a pop song about unrequited love and overpriced bubble tea.

Then the mirror flickered.

At first, she thought it was a trick of the light. But then the temperature in the room dropped like a bad exam grade, and the mirror shimmered again—this time clearly, unmistakably.

A man stood behind her.

Elegant. Tall. Wearing robes that belonged in a historical drama. His eyes glowed faintly blue, and his expression was one of extreme displeasure—like someone just told him his favorite dynasty had been canceled.

Yanyu shrieked. Loudly.

The man didn’t flinch.

“I am Shen Weizhi,” he said, his voice deep and oddly soothing. “You have disturbed my eternal rest.”

Yanyu hurled her hairbrush at him. It passed through harmlessly and thudded against the wall.

Chairman Meow casually walked out of the room.

“Why are you in my mirror?!” she screamed.

“You touched the hairpin,” he replied with ghostly calm. “That item is cursed, and now… so are you.”

“Oh great,” she groaned, sliding down the wall. “Not again.”

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